Post-Vanuatu Vanuatu Post

And now, the final time I'll be blogging up your arteries, at least about this particular misadventure.

When I last left you, Jack, Kilv and I had been stranded on a small(ish) island in the South Pacific. This island did have about 8,000 people on it. And trucks. And three airfields. Nevertheless, we felt very, very stranded. The island was called Ambae (and it still is), and it was halfway between Pentecost (where we'd come from) and Espiritu Santo (where we wanted to go). Ambae had not been in our itinerary at all, but Vanuatu tends to treat itineraries like a drunk bitter stuntman might treat general health and safety guidelines, guidelines which had been written by his ex-wife, who just loved to nag.

So, after being thrown off the cargo ship, we stood on the beach in a place called Lolowai, complained and got everybody feeling very sorry for us. The fact that the boat's crew had actually told us they were full up even before we got on, well, that was something we all decided was pretty irrelevant, so we didn't really mention it. What we did mention was that we'd been thrown off the boat, and this was terrible, and we deserved lots of nice things. So, we ascertained that there was a plane leaving at about 4 that day, and we managed to get a free ride to the airfield, because we'd been thrown off the boat (!) We sat there for about two hours until the plane arrived and was full. There had been three places left, but a policeman arrived with a couple of criminals and for some reason thought he had some sort of precedence. And, inexplicably, the staff at the airfield agreed (maybe they hadn't heard that we'd been thrown off the boat.)

So, on Ambae we remained.

On a side note, we tried playing cheat, the card game, at the airfield, and it went horribly, horribly wrong. Nobody won quickly enough, and soon enough we all just knew what the other people had in their hands, and a ridiculous impasse emerged. We packed it in, cleared the cards away and quietly agreed never to betray shithead again.

We were told we could stay in a local guesthouse for the night, and a truck ferried us down to the main town, and the provincial capital, Saratamata, which, to us, was a surreal version of the villages we were used to on Pentecost, infused with a bit more commercialism and modern sensibilities. There were garden hedges, and a (sole) business enterprise. This time we had to pay for our truck, and the guesthouse turned out to be even more expensive than those in Santo or Vila. But we were tired and needed a base of operations, so we accepted it. There was a shower, and a flush toilet, and regular electricity, and these were things we had not had for a while. Also, comfortable beds, which Jack and Kilv went straight to and slept in for hours. I couldn't, for some reason, and got this weird cabin fever. I had no idea how we'd get off this island. The plane that was arriving the next morning was probably going to be full. One of the airport staff had told us that. My faith in cargo ships had been shaken, and there weren't really any other options. I felt hopelessly caged. So, I distracted myself with any activity I could find. I read some of Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie. I played solitaire, both on my iPod and with real cards. I went for a walk and asked about cargo ships. My findings were that nobody could really give me a consistent and definite answer, but some ships might be coming at some point. So I went home and played solitaire again.

EVENTUALLY, Jack and Kilv woke up, and we had some warm beer and whiskey. Mmmmm. Then we made dinner. And this dinner was important. It represented the beginning of us cooking for ourselves, which we then did regularly and with no sense of variety for the next eight days. That's a long time to live off combinations of rice, noodles, tuna and pork luncheon meat. This first meal was just noodles. We had a limited amount of material money with us, no way to get more without setting up our own guesthouse (it would have been a magical place...) and no definite time of departure. So: noodles.

The next day, we heard from the guesthouse manager (we so nearly became his competition: sadly, we would have run him out of town) that the plane was full up. He'd received a call from the airport. So, we decided to walk back to Lolowai and see if anyone there knew anything more concrete about the boats. It was here that we met Enos (pronounced anus) a local man who very kindly gave us all the information we needed. There was a ship coming today, the Makila, and it would be here about 4 in the afternoon. This was amazing news. But obviously, we weren't stupid, and we knew that, here, what sounded like amazing news could quite easily turn out to be amazing conjecture. So, we took it with a handful of salt, and asked a few other people. There was enough reiteration of Enos's claims, that we started to get a bit hopeful. A bit too hopeful, perhaps? (Yes, very much too hopeful).

So, because we were feeling hopeful, and because, actually, we were a bit stupid, we decided that it was basically a sure thing we'd be getting off Ambae that very day, so why didn't we splash out on some lunch? We went to a little cafe, and had some bog-standard food, paid too much for it, and watched the first half of Home Alone 3. Afterwards, back in our guest house, we just bumbled about for a while, until 2, when we went down to the waterfront again, this time with our bags. There, we met some lads about our age who told us the ship would be coming in about 5, but then would be staying there all night, because it was too small to travel at nights. Hmmmmmm. But, again, we decided not to take this as fact, and decided to play a game of football with the lads just next to the harbour, while we waited for the ship. Eventually it was getting pretty dark, so we left Lolowai, which had remained Makila-less, to go to another, closer, guesthouse. We were going to come back early the next morning, the next time the Makila might be arriving.

This new guesthouse was part of a school, or training centre. All of the students had left for the holidays, and it was only the headmaster, Willy, and his family who remained. Willy was a lovely man, who agreed to take us into Saratamata to get some food, with his brand new truck. A brand new truck he obviously had little idea how to drive. We learnt this pretty quickly, as the trip began with a hill-start. Actually, three hill-starts, a nd a lot of apologetic sounds coming from Willy's direction. I very almost offered to drive it myself. However, we didn't crash, and the trip gave us a chance to explain to Willy the many shortcomings of the crew of the Tina I. He was very, very sorry, and felt a need to apologise profusely for his countrymen. He even gave us a third off the guesthouse price because, by that point, we were such expert whiners. So, for the second night, we cooked for ourselves (rice, tuna, noodles), and then played a lot of shithead. Probably too much.

The next morning, we returned to Lolowai, very early, and sat, awaiting the ship. There weren't really any other people about, and we began to think maybe the ship wasn't actually coming. Then, after about an hour, round the point, a massive ship emerged. Bigger than the Tina I, it sailed into view, looking fit to carry us all the way back to England. We were a little bit overjoyed. Finally some luck. We asked a nearby Ni-Van, so, is this the Makila? And he said no. This was the Serafena. And it was going the wrong way. Balls. Then, just as we were explaining to the Ni-Van that it was the wrong ship, and we'd really rather not spend the next five days on the Serafena before reaching anywhere we actually wanted to be, the Makila rumbled into view. And as it drew up alongside the Serafena, and looked, to us, like a rowing boat, one made of lego, pulling up alongside an aircraft carrier, we felt like we'd been kicked in the balls by the boot we were searching for.

But, it turned out to be quite nice actually. We landed a sweet spot: a sizeable stretch of walkway just in front of the bridge, where we could all lay out and relax the voyage away. We even had some breakfest, and someone had kindly told the ships crew that we weren't eating anything except noodles and fish, so they kindly obliged. The ship pottered along Ambae first of all, going from east to west, stopping at about five more ports. For us though, this period was mostly about Kilv getting texts from Enos checking we were safe, and us getting sunburnt. It all happened very quickly, and a bit surreptitiously, so that we didn't even realise we were getting a bit burnt, until we were already VERY burnt. It didn't seem to hit Kilv too bad, but that was alright, because he was busy getting ill again (of the occasions where he'd drunk kava on Pentecost, he'd thrown up more times than not).

At the westernmost end of Ambae, we headed out into the open ocean, where waters began to get choppy. This was much to the annoyance of Kilv and the pigs who had just been tied up and left on the lower deck, where water was sloshing everywhere. These pigs were shivering. Concepts of animal welfare are so very underdeveloped in Vanuatu. For us with sturdier stomachs, the rocky waves, which were tipping the ship at what seemed like 45 degree angles from its upright state, were exciting stuff. You could stand up, and maybe, if you were brave, you could let go for just a second. Wowza. What japes.

Eventually, we reached Santo, at about 6 that evening, and as the pigs breathed an oink of relief, we disembarked and settled back into Luganville drudgery. What came next were three haiku-worthy days, where the most exciting thing we did was book our flights away. We also met two Australians, at different times, and played too much shithead. I'm really not going to waste much more time on those dreadful three days.

So, on Monday, the first chance we had to fly out, we did. We caught a plane to Vila, waited there for only (thank god) an hour, then carried on to Tanna. This was done in a much smaller plane, where you could comfortably see inside the cockpit, and seats sometimes fell apart. We landed at White Sands airfield on the West of Tanna, one of Vanuatu's most southern islands, and quickly found a truck to the Eastern side of the island, where everything we wanted to see was. As our funds were now getting quite stretched (we'd even written a budget of everything we needed to spend money on, and the maximum amount each thing would cost, and found we could just afford it; we then had to remind Jack that it wasn't our responsibility to spend exactly this amount), we haggled with the Ni-Van, Philip, who'd approached us, and got us down to a reasonable amount. The deal was that he'd take us over to the resort where he worked, Jungle Oasis, where we'd stay in tents, the cheapest option as we figured. The first part of the journey was through typical Vanuatu landscape: jungles, bamboo houses and barefoot children. At one point we stopped in Lenakel, Tanna's big town, and the truck went off, with our bags to pick up someone else. We were a bit unnerved, but we did feel we knew Vanuatu well enough for this level of trust to be acceptable. And the truck came back, so it was fine.

Halfway through the journey, we began to go up a hill. The big hill that you tend to find in the middle of islands. And this was big. Bigger than Pentecost's central ridge. But as we reached the crest and began to descend again, mist enveloped us. It was all around us. We could see there was a drop at the side of the road, but nothing beyond that. Just a white expanse. It was more magical than scary. We were told that this mist was somehow linked to the volcano, at whose base we would be staying. It wasn't smoke though, as we weren't coughing our lungs up. There's no guarantee that what we were told was even correct.

But that fog was nothing. As we descended, out of the cloud, we found ourselves still in jungle surroundings, until suddenly, we emerged onto the ashplains...

...which were amazing.

From being on a dust track completely surrounded by trees, to suddenly and unexpectedly find yourself on one of the most breathtaking and individual landscapes in the world. It could sort of be described as being desert-like, but that doesn't quite get it. The word which would get you closest would probably be 'lunar'. An expanse of lifeless, serene, unbroken terrain , fringed on all sides by lush verdant life, and surrounding the towering presence of Yasur. Never has the colour grey been so beautiful.

We trucked across this scene, over a hidden river, before coming up alongside Yasur. The big ol' volcano of Tanna. We'd be seeing her more intimately later. First, it was back into the jungle for a short way before reaching Jungle Oasis. We haggled some more and managed to get a lower price for a room (there weren't ACTUALLY any tents) and access to the kitchen to make our own dinner. It had started to rain, but we still needed to go and buy our dinner. Philip gamely suggested we all take off our t-shirts, and run to the store. Stupidly, we agreed. So, we hurtled off through the downpour following the vague shape of Philip. Oh, it was also pretty dark by this point. We passed some Ni-Vans who all got pretty excited by three topless white men being idiots in bad weather. Kilv also fell into a deep, deep puddle. Then we got to the store. The storekeeper wasn't there. So, Philip enlisted me to run off into the jungle with him, leaving Jack to tend to the soaking wet Kilv (hey, none of us were exactly dry, Philip). We reached the storekeepers house, and he wasn't there either. There was a lot of chat in the local language which I didn't understand, before Philip and I ran back to the store. Then, Philip ran off again, while we waited outside. For about half an hour. Then Philip remembered about us and came back, with the store key. Dinner was then bought, cooked and eaten. Then, bed.

The next day, Philip agreed to take us to one of the John Frum villages. John Frum was this American man who allegedly came during WWII, promised the local population a load of cool stuff if they maintained their ways, so they then began to worship America by raising their flag and building fake runways. This is one of the many self-contradictory versions of the story that we'd heard, and would yet hear. So, after a bit of a walk, we reached this village. And, to be honest, it was pretty standard. There wasn't even any US paraphernalia lying about. Secretly, I wasn't impressed. We were here so Jack could do some research and I could take photos, for an article for some publications back in the UK. But I didn't feel there was anything particularly special or exciting about this particular place, or these particular people. I mean, I love Vanuatu, and all the culture contained within it, but everyone seemed to make a big fuss about this cult (and yes, they're a cult) in particular, and if anything, this place seemed flatter, more culturally lifeless, than dozens of other villages I'd seen across the country. There was an interesting dance where an old woman was supposed to be possessed, and did genuinely act so, occasionally passing on the spirit to others. But nobody else seemed that impressed, and so any idea of an 'atmosphere' vanished. It just felt like a bit of interpretive dance that everyone was a bit bored by. And it could so easily have been a lot more. I do want to express though, that these are just my own feelings about the place.

Later, we did kava, as prepared in the Tannese style: chewed by small virginal children, and then strained through a bit of cloth. Mmmm, sanitary. Nevertheless, Kilv and I both had two shells (Jack stopped after one), and were each a little bit drunk for the rest of the day.

Afterwards, Jack had his interview with a man who was apparently the right-hand man of one of the top guys, but who also worked as a security guard at our resort. The man didn't really seem to understand everything about the cult, and some of the stuff didn't add up, in the usual Vanuatu style. I'm not going to tell you what was said, because we've since found out a lot of what we were told was actually secret, and shouldn't even have reached our ears. Silly security guard/cult official. Always sticking your foot in it (probably).

We walked back home, grabbed some lunch on the way, and bumbled around for a bit. Then, at about four, Philip came to take us up Yasur. With us on this trek we had Andreas and Silva, two Estonians who were travelling around the world a bit. After a surprisingly short time, we'd walked through the jungle part of the journey, and Yasur stood before us. After another surprisingly short walk, we reached the top. What we saw was a massive crater with lots of smoke pouring out, understandably. Yasur, is, by the way, a volcano. I'm genuinely not sure if I've mentioned that yet. As the dark and the coldness came, a glow was added to the smoke emanating from Yasur's mouth, and the occasional eruptions became a lot more impressive. You could actually see bits of lava being chucked up. We spent a long time waiting, with our fingers on our camera buttons, for these eruptions.

At about 7, we agreed to leave. We were pretty cold, on the top of that volcano. On the way down, Philip told us a pretty galling story about a tourist who had got herself and her guide killed by being stupid. We'd also been a bit stupid, and we felt ashamed.

Dinner, shithead, bed.

The next day, the main thing we did was ashboarding. Somehow, this resort had ended up with a snowboard, and Philip took us all to the ashplains. Silva came along with us, but couldn't actually participate because of some dodgy knee. However, he kindly took photos etc. On the ashplains there was this sort of ridge. The idea was to board down it. There were no proper snowboarding boots, just your shoes. And no steering or anything. Just straight down. I was a bit rubbish at this. I kept sitting down halfway down the slope. Jack had a fantastic fall on his first attempt. His second was alright. Kilv, however, was the king. He put us all to shame.  There was something about strapping yourself to a piece of fiberglass and launching yourself down the lower reaches of a volcano that came so naturally to that Norfolk born farm lad.

And Enos text Kilv a few more times, to see if we were all getting along alright.

The rest of the day was spent lazing about. Kilv went on a nature walk with Philip. Jack and I didn't.

Dinner, shithead (with the Estonians), bed.

The next morning, our last on Tanna, we boarded a truck with Philip and the Estonians, to head off to another John Frum village, this one at odds to the one previously visited. There'd been some sort of fracture in the beliefs of what John Frum meant, or where he was from, or something. Something to do with a river. When we got there, Jack took another interview, and I went off to take some photos. It was a little more interesting than the other place, but only a little. When I got back, Jack had nearly caused an international incident, so we left sharpish.

Back in the truck, we headed back to the western side of the island, to catch our plane. Climbing the hill again, there was no mist. And it was breathtaking. You could see so far across this most beautiful landscape, with Yasur rising out of the scenery, and spewing out a pillar of clouds. I sort of had an idea not to take photos of it, to leave it as a purely transitory experience, as that would somehow make it more beautiful... I don't really understand those thoughts now.

Back in Lenakel, we ate lunch in a cafe, and then waved goodbye to the Estonians, who were staying on this side of the island for a few days. We then waited around for a few hours near the airport, before jetting back to Vila.

We'd arranged to stay with Ken, Kilv's adoptive uncle, who owned a kava bar, which was right next to his house. He didn't really have enough beds, so I had a very thin mattress on the floor. Before bed though, we walked into town, had dinner at a nice cafe, as a treat. However, this cafe was also showing Twighliught: Eclipsssssse. Which we watched. It was rubbish. There was also some Christmas celebrations going on, but they were a bit too gaudy, so we went back to Ken's, which was in the much more interesting and fun part of Vila. As Jack and I slumped in front of Chinese news, Kilv went and had some secret kava.

The next morning Ken came in at 6:30, carrying a beer and announcing that it was his thirtieth birthday. So, we went outside, and the next three hours were spent drinking beer, eating barbecued chicken wings and taking photos. There was a weird friend of Ken's who kept tickling Jack, with no inhibitions about venturing near the groinal area, and making Kilv dance for him. But, as far as we could tell, he'd bought most of the beer, so fair enough. At about 9:30, we headed into town for some internet usage. We all managed to lose each other a bit, and it was getting too hot, so, after we'd managed to all be in the same place at the same time, we went back to Ken's.

And Kilv received some more texts from Enos, checking how we were, which was...nice.

We'd heard news that Sue, our old Gap coordinator, and a bit of a legend for us, lived very nearby, so we went and had a chat. After a bit of a bitch with her about the general state of certain things, we headed over to the hostel where all the current Gappers were staying, so Jack could pick up something from Joshua. We hung out with them for a good few hours, trading stories and the like, and found they all thought David was a cock as well, while the cock himself sat, by himself, in the lobby, on his laptop. That was genuinely his choice of things to do. Afterwards, a quick dinner in town, before an early night, as we would be leaving the house at about 4am.

Which we did.

And then waited in the airport, doing airport things, until our flight out at 7, to Sydney. Our day in Sydney was spent doing fun things like stealing showers from Youth Hostels, walking around a whole lot, drinking beer and watching The Last Exorcism. Our night in Sydney was spent on a cold floor, with annoying Christmas tunes being played too loudly. It's the worst airport to spend a night in.

And Kilv received a text from Enos, instructing him to send out a new mobile as a present. What an anus.

Then began our big Korean Air experience. Firstly, eight hours up to Seoul, which was pretty uneventful. However, in Seoul, we had rooms, courtesy of the airline, at a swanky-arse hotel. Seriously, it was ridiculous. You walk into the lobby, and immediately someone comes up and asks you where you want to go! You needed to use your keycards in the lift! There were phones in the bathrooms! We each had our own rooms! The breakfast was a buffet, and not a rubbish buffet! An omelette chef, a pastry chef, and probably some other chefs! It was what we needed. In the morning I watched an episode on New Tricks.

Then it was back to the airport to fly away, back to the UK.

On our eleven hour flight back home, the air-hostesses thought Kilv was drunk, after two beers, because his face looked a bit red, so what Jack and I did was each order a beer, drink the beer, and then put the empty cans on Kilv's table. There was also talk of spilling beer all over him while he was asleep. Oh, Kilv.

Then we got home, and it was snowing.

I'm going to say Silva, the Estonian, won shithead overall. Because I suspect with a name like Silva, there's a lot of pressure for him to come in second place all the time.

So, it's goodbye from Jack 'Tari Lalau' Noble, Tom 'Kilv' Kilvert, our assembled Ni-Van friendship base, the people at Korean Air and me, Will 'Mr Wells' Bourdillon. Lookem yu bakagen!